Through the inner workings of Blogger.com, provider of this site, I can see various bits of info under the "stats" summary. Apparently someone who was on my blog site entered an internal search to ask how worship is handled in The Neutral Zone. If the wording and spelling were complete enough to mean anything to me, it seemed to indicate that the searching was being done by a reader perhaps in Russia, where nearly half my readership is located, amazingly. At least, that's what the stats page also gives me.
Here I will freely admit that my neutrality cannot be depended upon when it comes to worship. Neutral in my attitudes toward people who are worshippers? Sure; I do that as devotedly as I can manage, determined to not be judgmental through the remainder of my life in the way I was during my religious years. I have written, in a book manuscript as well as in online comments, about my years of abject devotion to a Christian sect. The countless hours I spent on my knees during thirteen years of humble worship have made it difficult for me today to feel anything but revulsion at the thought of worship. What I came to see as wasted time then morphed into a grudge against the whole concept. That grudge came by way of realization that the time wasn't merely lost to me; the time spent in that devout mode had reduced me, weakened me as a person. In retrospect, I see worship as a constantly demoralizing and self-destructive activity.
Consider this: I hit puberty during the time Marilyn Monroe was soaring to heights of stardom. She was there in front of all of us hormone-laden teens of the nineteen-fifties, there to want and to worship. If I had taken to this goddess so profoundly that I could delude myself into a belief that she would someday be my lover, my soul-mate, etc., then I would have been giving myself over to a pointless and demoralizing struggle, my psyche forced to survive my own folly. Anyone who knew me and/or cared about me would have naturally been begging me to stop the madness of worshipping this unattainable goddess. They would have watched me in pity as I continually ate away inside with wanting something I could never attain. They would see me missing out on important activities while I sought more ways of potentially attracting Marilyn's attention. They would tell me this obsession was destructive and that I simply had to give it up. Other boys my age would have soared past me in development while playing baseball and joining in many typical youthful pursuits. I would have lessened my own stature by constant wishing and by pleading to some unseen force to give me the chance to see Marilyn and to have her see me.
Ludicrous analogy here? Not at all. The sad thing is, my fanciful worship of Marilyn (that didn't actually happen for me but undoubtedly did for many of my contemporaries), would have been less far-fetched than was my later worship of a traditional supreme being. At least Marilyn was real, was visible, was approachable. Was capable of returning attention. The odds against my meeting and finding love with her would have been astronomical, much as the odds against winning the big Mega Lotto jackpot - but it was not beyond any possibility. Worshippers of that traditional phantom in the skies (in any of the disparate concepts) surely believe that their chances for ultimate satisfaction are better than mine would have been with Marilyn. While I strongly doubt there is anything at all out there to make that desired satisfaction materialize, I nonetheless leave those worshippers to their own devices. And I wish them happiness in any way they can achieve it. I prefer working continually on being a better human and a more devoted fan and supporter of our visible cosmos. It is my firm and constant belief that when I bend to pick up one small piece of trash off the surface of this abused planet that I am doing infinitely more good for myself and humanity than I ever did by bending and scraping before a mystical supreme being.
IF that fictional worship of Marilyn Monroe had occurred in my youthful world, I would have expected, in fact it would have been a shame if it had not happened, that all who cared for me would have tried to convince me to give it up. But the commonly accepted traditions of society demand of us all that we never try to pull our friends and loved ones back from the brink of madness when they express a devotion to something completely implausible, invisible, unapproachable. And the madness is even madder than that - there is an intrinsic zaniness within the larger world of general belief! A Catholic can be deeply convinced that a Baptist is going down a wrong road and needs to be shown the light, but this simply isn't done. A Mormon can be absolute in his conviction that a Muslim is wrong in every way, but he cannot try to enlighten him; the right to believe any folly is sacred. Why, in our advanced age of Man and our 21st century world of scientific knowledge, can we not look at this phenomenon and ask, "What then can be the logic in my choosing any one of the innumerable beliefs and sticking to it in a devoted worship?" Ah, that is the question one might ask himself (unlikely though it is that anyone will), but it is a question one can never ask of others. It's just not in good taste.
That's it for now. No more talk of worship for this moment. I think I will go out and pick up some more trash from our Earth during Earth Week, then come in to settle into a scotch-on-the-rocks and maybe an old Marilyn Monroe film.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Miss Representation
So - - If I appear in drag and ask for your vote, might I win the title of Miss Representation? It would be very fitting, although I'm sure the clothes would not.
Yes, I meant to spell it out in the way it is above. Because that is the well-thought-out and interesting title of a new documentary film about women and sexism in our society. Jennifer Siebel Newsom, director (creator) of the film and website, Miss Represention, was interviewed on a cable news show on Sunday, April 15th and has since been well covered in a number of media outlets. So rather than try to write a new, longer blog today, I ask that you check out this important effort to achieve balance in our world of inequality. My own feelings on the mistreatment and under-appreciation of females have been clearly stated in earlier blog entries. The work being done by Miss Newsom will go far beyond what I might write in my small corner of blogland.
Good cheer to you on this beautiful morning.
Yes, I meant to spell it out in the way it is above. Because that is the well-thought-out and interesting title of a new documentary film about women and sexism in our society. Jennifer Siebel Newsom, director (creator) of the film and website, Miss Represention, was interviewed on a cable news show on Sunday, April 15th and has since been well covered in a number of media outlets. So rather than try to write a new, longer blog today, I ask that you check out this important effort to achieve balance in our world of inequality. My own feelings on the mistreatment and under-appreciation of females have been clearly stated in earlier blog entries. The work being done by Miss Newsom will go far beyond what I might write in my small corner of blogland.
Good cheer to you on this beautiful morning.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Nightmare Golf
The last few days have been a bit of a loss to my real world - assuming anyone would characterize my strange existence as happening in a real world. I came down with some very debilitating bug shortly after an Easter dinner. No connection, I presume. But by late afternoon, I was slipping into a state of chills and fever, sneaking away from the other guests and hosts at the auspicious venue, and stretching out across the guest bed. That happened to be near the guest bathroom, where I was concerned my meal was going to end up shortly, returning by the same path it had taken an hour or two earlier.
And to my friend Al, who commented on my previous post, allow me to say I did NOT enjoy that scotch as you encouraged me to do. The fact that I was sipping a fine after dinner drink and could not enjoy the taste was a clue that something was not quite right in my interior. My downhill slide began sometime around half-way through the final round of The Masters golf tournament which all of us at that gathering watched with delight. Witnessing Bubba Watson's tearful release of tournament tension was about the last thing I recall of the day.
To emphasize this connection to golf in general (and you know by now, I'm something of a nut for the game), I had just spent a week with our children who came to hang out at our home on the golf course. We played well over 100 holes of golf during that week! When my son is here with me enjoying the typical warmth of southern California, he feels enfranchised and obligated to spend all the time he can on the course because it's just the thing to do! He might manage to play on another course only once or twice before he's back here in three to four months, so he backlogs his rounds of golf whenever he's here. Now my six-year-old grandson is becoming almost as committed. So I did play a lot of golf, having to always be out there with them to allow them to play in my senior community. Naturally, I loved it all.
The foregoing info will come into play here shortly. Sleep on Sunday night was practically impossible. All my bones seemed to want to reject each other and depart my body in protest. But if my estimate of ten minutes as my longest single time spent in any one position is correct, then my nightmare was amazingly resilient and determined. It seemed I had slept almost not at all, yet it equally seemed that I dreamed for hours - that is, endured the nightmare for hours. It would seem the nightmare was so determined, it renewed itself after a number of semi-wakeful stretches in which I was forced to painfully turn my body to a new, still uncomfortable, position.
And the nightmare, unbelievably, had me trudging a golf course! I use the word trudging pointedly because walking was more like dragging myself along through thick mud - an account I've heard others recite in trying to express the feel of a nightmare. But the course I was playing didn't look muddy or awful in anyway; it looked like a beautiful golf course. It wasn't Augusta National, for some reason, but a fine course. I simply was hampered in my ability to play it properly. Apparently I was required (by some impish golf-gods conspiring with nightmare gremlins) to go ahead of my son's round on the course, and until I could conquer a hole in some way, he would not be able to do well at all. The problems were two-fold essentially. One; as I said, it was as though I had to trudge through mud even though the course didn't show up as muddy, and two; the holes I had to hit were not really holes and not even on actual greens. As best I can describe them, they were rubber-like objects tossed on the ground at odd locations - I had to find them - and they looked more like enlargements of those crazy shaped rubber-bands of many colors that youngsters collect on their wrists. After each time I was able to putt the ball into the crazy band, I was told I had to pick up the rubber item and put it on my ankle, stretching it over my shoe. These then gathered in number and hampered me still more as I continued slogging through the course.
My son following along with the regular play, typical greens and holes, and having a caddy, appeared to be playing well though I could barely catch a glimpse of him at some of the greens while I was on the succeeding tee boxes. At some of these moments, he gave me a thumbs-up gesture. Much appreciated!
I'm sure a dream analyzer could come up with all kinds of psychological meaning out of all this, but to me it meant one thing only: I was sick! My supposition is that the brain is stuffed with so much info along with flotsam and jetsam that given a chance, it will push out some of that crud while other systems are down.
Congrats to Bubba and my son for great rounds of golf!
And to my friend Al, who commented on my previous post, allow me to say I did NOT enjoy that scotch as you encouraged me to do. The fact that I was sipping a fine after dinner drink and could not enjoy the taste was a clue that something was not quite right in my interior. My downhill slide began sometime around half-way through the final round of The Masters golf tournament which all of us at that gathering watched with delight. Witnessing Bubba Watson's tearful release of tournament tension was about the last thing I recall of the day.
To emphasize this connection to golf in general (and you know by now, I'm something of a nut for the game), I had just spent a week with our children who came to hang out at our home on the golf course. We played well over 100 holes of golf during that week! When my son is here with me enjoying the typical warmth of southern California, he feels enfranchised and obligated to spend all the time he can on the course because it's just the thing to do! He might manage to play on another course only once or twice before he's back here in three to four months, so he backlogs his rounds of golf whenever he's here. Now my six-year-old grandson is becoming almost as committed. So I did play a lot of golf, having to always be out there with them to allow them to play in my senior community. Naturally, I loved it all.
The foregoing info will come into play here shortly. Sleep on Sunday night was practically impossible. All my bones seemed to want to reject each other and depart my body in protest. But if my estimate of ten minutes as my longest single time spent in any one position is correct, then my nightmare was amazingly resilient and determined. It seemed I had slept almost not at all, yet it equally seemed that I dreamed for hours - that is, endured the nightmare for hours. It would seem the nightmare was so determined, it renewed itself after a number of semi-wakeful stretches in which I was forced to painfully turn my body to a new, still uncomfortable, position.
And the nightmare, unbelievably, had me trudging a golf course! I use the word trudging pointedly because walking was more like dragging myself along through thick mud - an account I've heard others recite in trying to express the feel of a nightmare. But the course I was playing didn't look muddy or awful in anyway; it looked like a beautiful golf course. It wasn't Augusta National, for some reason, but a fine course. I simply was hampered in my ability to play it properly. Apparently I was required (by some impish golf-gods conspiring with nightmare gremlins) to go ahead of my son's round on the course, and until I could conquer a hole in some way, he would not be able to do well at all. The problems were two-fold essentially. One; as I said, it was as though I had to trudge through mud even though the course didn't show up as muddy, and two; the holes I had to hit were not really holes and not even on actual greens. As best I can describe them, they were rubber-like objects tossed on the ground at odd locations - I had to find them - and they looked more like enlargements of those crazy shaped rubber-bands of many colors that youngsters collect on their wrists. After each time I was able to putt the ball into the crazy band, I was told I had to pick up the rubber item and put it on my ankle, stretching it over my shoe. These then gathered in number and hampered me still more as I continued slogging through the course.
My son following along with the regular play, typical greens and holes, and having a caddy, appeared to be playing well though I could barely catch a glimpse of him at some of the greens while I was on the succeeding tee boxes. At some of these moments, he gave me a thumbs-up gesture. Much appreciated!
I'm sure a dream analyzer could come up with all kinds of psychological meaning out of all this, but to me it meant one thing only: I was sick! My supposition is that the brain is stuffed with so much info along with flotsam and jetsam that given a chance, it will push out some of that crud while other systems are down.
Congrats to Bubba and my son for great rounds of golf!
Sunday, April 8, 2012
He is Risen...
Ra, that is. The sun god has not ceased to be honored in many thousands of years, the last two thousand or so of these all mystically combined with a Son and tied to an extended mythology.
When some jolting image in a zany dream awoke me this morning, I was suddenly aware of the bright light coming in through the window and realized the sun was already up, which is unusual for my world. Normally I am checking the clock every few minutes, in total darkness, and deciding when I might just as well rise from the bed and not wreck a tenuous balance of sleeping/waking time. Then the daylight creeps into my living room as I sit with my computer on my lap and listen to the coffee brewing. Today was different only in that I slept a few minutes into daylight and had to shake off the eerie effects of some very busy and typically confusing activity that had gone on in the vague webs of dreamland.
I did not suddenly jump to the realization I was missing some kind of sunrise service. In fact, it was only after getting up and turning on the coffee maker that I had to deal with the reality of what day this is in the world around me - a world far more zany and confusing than dreamland. And now I need to gather myself and prepare for dealing with actual humans who impact my life but who also feel tradition bound to make some special worshipful gestures on this day. For the cause of personal and family peace, I must allow myself to be sucked in once again to that arcane world of eggs and bunnies. To be less than comfortable but more in tune with others who are part of my life, I will again drive to be with those who insist on doing the Easter thing. At least I managed to make it clear many years ago that I would have none of the go-to-meetin' part of the whole morass of Easter Madness. My morning time, instead of sitting piously among fearful deity followers, can be enjoyed while at the steering wheel, seeing the world around me go by and relaxing in the pleasure of moving along the road. This has long been one of my religious experiences - far more satisfying than any ceremonial religious b***s*** in which I have involved myself in the past.
So now to appreciate the fresh coffee, turn on the TV and check out what the folks in Augusta are saying about the final round of The Masters golf tournament that is getting underway even as I write. Part of what made me decide to make the drive to the home of today's hosts was the fact I knew there would be lots of food and good Scotch, and that the television would stay tuned all afternoon to The Masters. Terrific irony there.
When some jolting image in a zany dream awoke me this morning, I was suddenly aware of the bright light coming in through the window and realized the sun was already up, which is unusual for my world. Normally I am checking the clock every few minutes, in total darkness, and deciding when I might just as well rise from the bed and not wreck a tenuous balance of sleeping/waking time. Then the daylight creeps into my living room as I sit with my computer on my lap and listen to the coffee brewing. Today was different only in that I slept a few minutes into daylight and had to shake off the eerie effects of some very busy and typically confusing activity that had gone on in the vague webs of dreamland.
I did not suddenly jump to the realization I was missing some kind of sunrise service. In fact, it was only after getting up and turning on the coffee maker that I had to deal with the reality of what day this is in the world around me - a world far more zany and confusing than dreamland. And now I need to gather myself and prepare for dealing with actual humans who impact my life but who also feel tradition bound to make some special worshipful gestures on this day. For the cause of personal and family peace, I must allow myself to be sucked in once again to that arcane world of eggs and bunnies. To be less than comfortable but more in tune with others who are part of my life, I will again drive to be with those who insist on doing the Easter thing. At least I managed to make it clear many years ago that I would have none of the go-to-meetin' part of the whole morass of Easter Madness. My morning time, instead of sitting piously among fearful deity followers, can be enjoyed while at the steering wheel, seeing the world around me go by and relaxing in the pleasure of moving along the road. This has long been one of my religious experiences - far more satisfying than any ceremonial religious b***s*** in which I have involved myself in the past.
So now to appreciate the fresh coffee, turn on the TV and check out what the folks in Augusta are saying about the final round of The Masters golf tournament that is getting underway even as I write. Part of what made me decide to make the drive to the home of today's hosts was the fact I knew there would be lots of food and good Scotch, and that the television would stay tuned all afternoon to The Masters. Terrific irony there.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Duck Tape
Yes, that's duck tape. Because you just never know when one of those pesky ducks is going to come crashing to Earth, flopping on the ground at your feet on a perfectly clear day for no obvious reason. It could be guilty of eating too much smoked salmon and flying while inloxicated. If you had compassion for him and could endure his fish breath, you would naturally put him back together using duck tape.
Perhaps this drunken duck finds you while you are walking on the Isles of Marsh. Beware!
Having a little fun here this morning at the expense of mis-users of the language. A friend sent me a photo of a small plane that had been repaired with duct tape, enough to fly it back to his base for proper repairs. The article was in praise of duct tape saying, "Don't leave home with it." Good idea, but my mind suddenly jumped to the fact that some folks don't actually know that this product is is duct tape, spelled with a t - a very strong and durable tape developed for the HVAC industry to hold air ducts together. Perhaps some folks who know nothing about ducts think the tape is made with the linen canvas called duck. [* See insert below] Yesterday I saw in the hardware store a colorful roll of something new called Duck Tape - probably some enterprising marketer figured out the public's tendency to think of the name in this way. I personally have heard people clearly say duck tape on many occasions. But no, I have never heard anyone say inloxicated.
The Isles of Marsh line was also a reference just made up today because I am jotting notes on March 15, called by Shakespeare the ides of March, or the middle of that month. That's definitely an indefinite placement, the Roman calendar giving the 15th day of four months (March, May, July and October) the position of ides while the other eight months show the 13th bearing that wispy label. So please don't make the simple slip of writing about the ides of April when taxes are due. Forgivable, but it's better to be informed.
My mind has been on this matter of word misunderstanding, misspelling, mispronunciation etc., as well as the twisted use of expressions, due to an online literary contact having made a major fox paws in a promotion piece. Even people who work in the world of words and writing can make bold blunders in their strange misuses of words and phrases, and as someone I knew many years ago used to say, in all seriousness, "That just ceases to amaze me." (My own twisted sense of humor has allowed me often to utilize that little gem when in the company of someone who can enjoy the laugh with me.)
It was actually a literary agent sending out emails of self-promotion who made the stumble that has been eating at me for a few days. I can't decide whether to thoughtfully inform the young lady of her misused reference or to let it go without comment. First, it would be difficult to do a thoughtfully worded correction without sounding pompous or pretentious; and second, I've already questioned whether this literary connection is one worth keeping. She could turn off others while representing me!
The blunder itself involved a lovely photograph of a night sky in a storm. Two dramatic lightening bolts were caught simultaneously touching the ground, perhaps within three or four miles of each other. The literary agent looking for an assist in catching the attention of her audience to impress us with the exciting news that an opportunity might actually be repeating itself, simply fell upon a seemingly easy context. Problem was, the easy context was a totally misused one simply because the young lady apparently has always heard an old expression repeated in its common shortened version: lightening never strikes twice ... The fact she didn't even seem to know that the original expression ends with, in the same place, is indicative of our abbreviated speech and abbreviated reasoning nowadays. And she was not dedicated enough to check it out - even by a cursory Google search. I did so and even typing in the shortened version only, the quick selections available all point to the full idiom and go into probable meanings and usages. So she constructed an entire concept on half of a thought, which not only changed the meaning entirely, it showed she was lacking in thought.
Bothering me still further was the amazing fact that this person had obviously never witnessed a beautiful double - or multiple - lightening strike in her own world. I've personally enjoyed these displays on a large scale and on numerous occasions. One especially memorable night in Arizona a few years ago, my wife and I stayed outside our tent to marvel at the massive electrical storm that kept most of the sky to the west (a good, safe distance west!) of our location almost continuously lit up like some kind of laser light show. We even put music (vocalizing Beethoven's 5th, etc.) to it and made up the likely words of a banter being shared among the clouds and their charges firing out. There were easily six to ten strikes at times hitting the ground simultaneously during an hour or more of our devoted watching. We weren't doing the photography thing and even if we had been, we could not have captured nearly enough of the action to do justice to the intensity of our excitement of being there in person. Truly talented and dedicated photographers have displayed some incredibly awesome lightening shows.
The more I look into it now online, the more disgusted I am with the shallowness that a supposed literary person revealed in using a simple premise to sell her too-simple approach and taking no time at all to check out the subject. There must be hundreds of better ways to grab attention for a commercial purpose than to so flagrantly misuse and misunderstand an old expression. I think I will just delete her emails in the future.
This dismissive way of dealing with a language abuser is not a typical approach for me; it all depends on whether the speaker is someone who already has my respect but who merely slips up. Such was the case last week when I had to endure many repetitions of the old nucular offense, this time by Melissa Harris-Perry. She is a highly intelligent and very highly educated professor who is worthy of my respect in her typical output and I try to catch some of her new show on MSNBC on weekend mornings. She's so worthy of my audience that I've long since learned to virtually not hear a speech impediment that is obviously not within her control. But her mispronouncing of words in the manner of less capable speakers was just too much for my ears. So I sent her an email asking her - begging her - to rise above the level of the embarrassing former POTUS, GWB, who was notably poor at any kind of speaking and who never seemed to catch on to the way most of the world laughed at him for the oft-repeated mispronunciation of nuclear. SNL folks did a commendable job of poking fun at him for it as did other comics and writers. But as I said to Ms. Harris-Perry, Bush was perhaps incapable of learning; she is not.
No, I do NOT go through life trying to correct all the linguistic errors I encounter nor trying to punish all the usage criminals I confront. And yes, even as one reader of this blog called me out, I still make those occasional blunders myself. I hope I can avoid repeating egregious (or even minor) slips, but I'm pragmatic about this. Anyone using the language very much is bound to sometimes misuse it. I'm no paragon of proper speech, only someone who tries hard to be a good usage example. My wonderful wife, who communicates as effectively as anyone I know, is nonetheless a font of foibles and flaws in speech and spoonerism. She not only misuses words and expressions, she creates her own where nothing she knows is quite sufficient. She unintentionally utters many hilarious lines such as those delivered with practiced innocence by Gracie Allen many years ago, but she is a cute and bubbly blond, so I have dubbed her Gracie Hawn. When she asked me years ago to correct some of her missteps in speech, I declined until pressed on the issue. Acting as a constant verbal editor for my wife would not have promoted much harmony between us. We finally agreed that if she would try hard to avoid abusing just three offending words which are commonly mispronounced and are particularly grating on my nerves, then I would try hard never to wince or show any outward sign of dismay when she misses on any others. So the only time I call her on anything is when she slips up and says the aforementioned nucular or that word I already covered in an entire post - real(e)ty.
And the third one? The other abused word I am allowed to reject and repair for my wife? Amazingly, it's another one heard often coming from people in all walks of life, including even broadcasters! And it's one of those words that is easier said properly than it is in the commonly corrupted version. Go figure! Oh, well, I guess error is here to stay; we can never excape it!
[ * Correction INSERT - Mar. 23]
Once again, this red-faced writer is guilty of doing exactly as he accused others of doing; writing before thoroughly checking it out himself. If Wikipedia is correct, the article about duct tape shows that I am sadly lacking in knowledge of this product. Now I'm reading up on other articles found in an online search, and I see that The Duct Tape Guys have written seven books on the subject. No, I probably won't read all of those, but allow me to stand VERY corrected on my earlier snide remarks about the tape. And NO, this was not premeditated as a test of my readership to see who might slap me around for my gaffe. I simply blew it!
Perhaps this drunken duck finds you while you are walking on the Isles of Marsh. Beware!
Having a little fun here this morning at the expense of mis-users of the language. A friend sent me a photo of a small plane that had been repaired with duct tape, enough to fly it back to his base for proper repairs. The article was in praise of duct tape saying, "Don't leave home with it." Good idea, but my mind suddenly jumped to the fact that some folks don't actually know that this product is is duct tape, spelled with a t - a very strong and durable tape developed for the HVAC industry to hold air ducts together. Perhaps some folks who know nothing about ducts think the tape is made with the linen canvas called duck. [* See insert below] Yesterday I saw in the hardware store a colorful roll of something new called Duck Tape - probably some enterprising marketer figured out the public's tendency to think of the name in this way. I personally have heard people clearly say duck tape on many occasions. But no, I have never heard anyone say inloxicated.
The Isles of Marsh line was also a reference just made up today because I am jotting notes on March 15, called by Shakespeare the ides of March, or the middle of that month. That's definitely an indefinite placement, the Roman calendar giving the 15th day of four months (March, May, July and October) the position of ides while the other eight months show the 13th bearing that wispy label. So please don't make the simple slip of writing about the ides of April when taxes are due. Forgivable, but it's better to be informed.
My mind has been on this matter of word misunderstanding, misspelling, mispronunciation etc., as well as the twisted use of expressions, due to an online literary contact having made a major fox paws in a promotion piece. Even people who work in the world of words and writing can make bold blunders in their strange misuses of words and phrases, and as someone I knew many years ago used to say, in all seriousness, "That just ceases to amaze me." (My own twisted sense of humor has allowed me often to utilize that little gem when in the company of someone who can enjoy the laugh with me.)
It was actually a literary agent sending out emails of self-promotion who made the stumble that has been eating at me for a few days. I can't decide whether to thoughtfully inform the young lady of her misused reference or to let it go without comment. First, it would be difficult to do a thoughtfully worded correction without sounding pompous or pretentious; and second, I've already questioned whether this literary connection is one worth keeping. She could turn off others while representing me!
The blunder itself involved a lovely photograph of a night sky in a storm. Two dramatic lightening bolts were caught simultaneously touching the ground, perhaps within three or four miles of each other. The literary agent looking for an assist in catching the attention of her audience to impress us with the exciting news that an opportunity might actually be repeating itself, simply fell upon a seemingly easy context. Problem was, the easy context was a totally misused one simply because the young lady apparently has always heard an old expression repeated in its common shortened version: lightening never strikes twice ... The fact she didn't even seem to know that the original expression ends with, in the same place, is indicative of our abbreviated speech and abbreviated reasoning nowadays. And she was not dedicated enough to check it out - even by a cursory Google search. I did so and even typing in the shortened version only, the quick selections available all point to the full idiom and go into probable meanings and usages. So she constructed an entire concept on half of a thought, which not only changed the meaning entirely, it showed she was lacking in thought.
Bothering me still further was the amazing fact that this person had obviously never witnessed a beautiful double - or multiple - lightening strike in her own world. I've personally enjoyed these displays on a large scale and on numerous occasions. One especially memorable night in Arizona a few years ago, my wife and I stayed outside our tent to marvel at the massive electrical storm that kept most of the sky to the west (a good, safe distance west!) of our location almost continuously lit up like some kind of laser light show. We even put music (vocalizing Beethoven's 5th, etc.) to it and made up the likely words of a banter being shared among the clouds and their charges firing out. There were easily six to ten strikes at times hitting the ground simultaneously during an hour or more of our devoted watching. We weren't doing the photography thing and even if we had been, we could not have captured nearly enough of the action to do justice to the intensity of our excitement of being there in person. Truly talented and dedicated photographers have displayed some incredibly awesome lightening shows.
The more I look into it now online, the more disgusted I am with the shallowness that a supposed literary person revealed in using a simple premise to sell her too-simple approach and taking no time at all to check out the subject. There must be hundreds of better ways to grab attention for a commercial purpose than to so flagrantly misuse and misunderstand an old expression. I think I will just delete her emails in the future.
This dismissive way of dealing with a language abuser is not a typical approach for me; it all depends on whether the speaker is someone who already has my respect but who merely slips up. Such was the case last week when I had to endure many repetitions of the old nucular offense, this time by Melissa Harris-Perry. She is a highly intelligent and very highly educated professor who is worthy of my respect in her typical output and I try to catch some of her new show on MSNBC on weekend mornings. She's so worthy of my audience that I've long since learned to virtually not hear a speech impediment that is obviously not within her control. But her mispronouncing of words in the manner of less capable speakers was just too much for my ears. So I sent her an email asking her - begging her - to rise above the level of the embarrassing former POTUS, GWB, who was notably poor at any kind of speaking and who never seemed to catch on to the way most of the world laughed at him for the oft-repeated mispronunciation of nuclear. SNL folks did a commendable job of poking fun at him for it as did other comics and writers. But as I said to Ms. Harris-Perry, Bush was perhaps incapable of learning; she is not.
No, I do NOT go through life trying to correct all the linguistic errors I encounter nor trying to punish all the usage criminals I confront. And yes, even as one reader of this blog called me out, I still make those occasional blunders myself. I hope I can avoid repeating egregious (or even minor) slips, but I'm pragmatic about this. Anyone using the language very much is bound to sometimes misuse it. I'm no paragon of proper speech, only someone who tries hard to be a good usage example. My wonderful wife, who communicates as effectively as anyone I know, is nonetheless a font of foibles and flaws in speech and spoonerism. She not only misuses words and expressions, she creates her own where nothing she knows is quite sufficient. She unintentionally utters many hilarious lines such as those delivered with practiced innocence by Gracie Allen many years ago, but she is a cute and bubbly blond, so I have dubbed her Gracie Hawn. When she asked me years ago to correct some of her missteps in speech, I declined until pressed on the issue. Acting as a constant verbal editor for my wife would not have promoted much harmony between us. We finally agreed that if she would try hard to avoid abusing just three offending words which are commonly mispronounced and are particularly grating on my nerves, then I would try hard never to wince or show any outward sign of dismay when she misses on any others. So the only time I call her on anything is when she slips up and says the aforementioned nucular or that word I already covered in an entire post - real(e)ty.
And the third one? The other abused word I am allowed to reject and repair for my wife? Amazingly, it's another one heard often coming from people in all walks of life, including even broadcasters! And it's one of those words that is easier said properly than it is in the commonly corrupted version. Go figure! Oh, well, I guess error is here to stay; we can never excape it!
[ * Correction INSERT - Mar. 23]
Once again, this red-faced writer is guilty of doing exactly as he accused others of doing; writing before thoroughly checking it out himself. If Wikipedia is correct, the article about duct tape shows that I am sadly lacking in knowledge of this product. Now I'm reading up on other articles found in an online search, and I see that The Duct Tape Guys have written seven books on the subject. No, I probably won't read all of those, but allow me to stand VERY corrected on my earlier snide remarks about the tape. And NO, this was not premeditated as a test of my readership to see who might slap me around for my gaffe. I simply blew it!
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Weights & Measures
This piece has nothing to do with graduated sizes of lead cylinders and extensive instruments used in determining finite measurements. No, this is all about the heavy weights placed upon people who take on positions of leadership and the manner in which they are measured by their handling of these matters. There exists no metrology for this arcane business.
Personally, I hated the speech given by President Obama at the American Israeli Public Affairs Committee gathering in March. Oh yes, the president was able, because of his intelligence and the capability of his writers, to give another sound and fairly convincing speech that was likely appreciated by the supporters of Israel's sovereignty and will surely be an over-all plus in his run for re-election. What I hated was the fact that he had to deliver it at all.
The words this president and all presidents in the last six decades have been obliged to say about the virtual island called Israel are to me a mystery and the premise itself is indefensible. Our leaders in this country are always required to say words of strong protectionism toward Israel. Israel! A tiny nation carved out of the sands and rocks of the Middle East, surrounded by Syrian, Arabian and Jordanian (and doubtless a few others too obscure to gain notice) peoples and cultures. And much like the briefcase of nuclear power and other responsibilities which is handed off to each new president, in fact part & parcel of that bag of responsibilities, is the protection of Israel. The weight of that powder keg was handed off from Truman to Eisenhower in 1953 and has continued to be handed on down to each new Commander-in-Chief to this day. And each has been measured by his caution and wisdom in handling that explosive.
WHY? Indeed!
Allow me to draw a totally far-fetched analogy here. Let's imagine a playground at a school. That's right - a playground. Silly, I know, but playgrounds have been exigent and weighty in the affairs of men!
The In Crowd - let's use this as the title for the acknowledged strongest group of kids on the playground, encompassing most of the larger and physically more imposing boys who are always prominent in this milieu. The In Crowd has been around and respected, often feared, for quite some time, growing stronger with each challenge to its supremacy. The individual members of this crowd continually change, but the crowd never lessens in its strength or influence over the whole playground. Those smaller cliques that dare to rise up against it are always quelled in such a decisive fashion that they fall away and often dissolve and disappear as a cohesive group that could ever again threaten the In Crowd.
One day an intelligent and persuasive fellow, one of the older and more serious students who is respected and has a devoted but cerebral and harmless following of his own, approaches the leaders of the In Crowd with a request. Could this big, strong group perhaps support the much smaller group who have a big mission and difficult plan to execute? The leaders of the In Crowd listen to a captivating story, well told by this serious older student, about the fact that long ago, before this school existed, even before this whole area was developed and heavily populated, a venerable old man lived in a sad little hut on a small plot of ground. This little old man, let's call him Old Jude Adams, lost track of all his children who had not stayed near him to work his little plot of land. Over many years, they had re-settled elsewhere, with no close ties to the old man or his property. Now, due to much seeking and interesting coincidental events, it had been discovered that a substantial number of the descendants of Mr. Adams wanted to touch base with their ancient forefather's land. This serious student, call him David, acting on behalf of all those distant cousins, had found that old Mr. Adams had left a monument to his legacy. This monument, a strong piece of concrete engraved with the Adams name and inlaid with a small but imposing stone, had been left unnoticed over the centuries by developers, and low and behold, was actually the cornerstone of the current playground activity center. From ancient notes left by Old Jude Adams, the lines of his small plot were easily measured from this monument, and the original property, that should rightfully have been passed on down to all these descendants, now contained the Jungle Jim and other playground equipment area - not any large basketball courts or baseball fields, but that little center of activity that the kids all took for granted, using whenever they pleased.
So here was the request: We, the descendants of Jude Adams, would like to claim this one small area as the place where only we who are all the cousins can play. It should have been ours all along, so we hope that you, the strongest of all the groups of all the kids who frequent this area, will support our decision to make this little plot of our great ancestor, our own private playground. That you will help us put our markings around it and claim it and all rights to its use, for our family only. And further, that you will protect us and our own descendants, allowing us to always play here and keep others out, for all time.
For some strange reason, the leaders of the In Crowd decided they could make that commitment.
Back to today's real world of actual events; after more than six decades, it is not unreasonable to question the whole business of the 1948 world playground and a strange deal that was struck.
Sadly, some of the most devoted present day bright advocates for peaceful solutions to Israel's problems are fine young folks born too recently to question some elements of the way things are. Israel itself was born only three years after I came along, so most of today's American fighters for Israeli concerns have been aware, for all of their lives, only of this great conflict in the Middle East. It's hard for them to grasp the reasons for so much conflict and the hatreds surrounding Israel. Hearing the passionate pleas of intelligent young activists on behalf of Israel and our (American) initiative to stand firm for Israeli sovereignty and safety, makes me a little crazy. People who visit websites like J Street can offer support and join the conversation. Great discussions on television and in meeting halls everywhere can be continued (have been and will be continued) to keep the fight alive and protect Israel at all cost.
Here's my own solution. And since I have no weight in world affairs, my comments will not be measured, (therefore I can toss out any cockamamie idea I please), but here is what should have been done when the United States so desired to assist (a fundamentally good desire) the Jewish People back in 1948 to obtain a homeland. We could have selected one and deeded it to them! Why didn't we give these people we felt obligated to protect, a piece of ground we actually controlled - somewhere more desirable (and safer) than that harsh landscape east of the Mediterranean Sea.
How about Camp Pendleton? Our government had already commandeered that large chunk of California ocean-side property in the war years to use as a training facility for our fighting soldiers and Marines. By the late forties, the war was over and that land could readily have been returned to good use in the art of living rather than preparing for more future killing. Yes, the area is only a fraction of the total size of the current territory called Israel, but it's probably close to the amount of desirable and arable real estate contained in that whole Middle East region. And to me, it has always seemed a crime that any part of the beauty of the coastline of California is devoted to the ugliness and cruelty of war.
So, you say a little more land would have been required for a truly thoughtful gift to our friends? We could have thrown in Santa Catalina Island! Just a breeze of a boat ride, maybe forty miles from the Pendleton coastline, or a very brief commuter plane trip away. You say, but it wouldn't have been like returning to Jerusalem! True. But really, anybody can admit, no matter what mythology is involved, that a city itself cannot be holy. At least, none built by humans. You may believe deeply in a New Jerusalem to come, but that one supposedly will be built by a supreme being and made of pure gold! Putting that aside, think of what a fabulous and distinctive dedicated city could have been built there in the natural beauty of Catalina without even disturbing the small group of existing local citizens at that time. By spreading out over the whole beautiful island, folks could live far better than they do while shoe-horned into the tiny center of Jewish life in the original Jerusalem.
This could all be done still today and we could call a halt to the madness of our obligation to protect eight million people struggling (and terrified) to live in the middle of the Middle Eastern Muslim world. Giving up that part of the commitment to our military preparedness would surely offset the need to keep open this one training facility of Pendleton (one of several in California alone) and the whole arrangement would beautify and honor this part of our planet. Imagine what those creative and hard-working people could do here!
As for the Catalina Island part of the deal, the four thousand citizens of Avalon would very likely vote to approve the take-over by Israelis who could make more of the area than has been accomplished there in the past. After all, the island is accustomed to historic changes and extremely few of these current inhabitants were there in 1948 when the island was most ripe for the change. Tom Robbins who was deeded the island in the early 1800s did little with it and the Banning family went broke trying to make a go of it a century later. Bill Wrigley did okay with his (majority) ownership of the place and for a few decades the Chicago Cubs trained there. But basically, the island sits quietly, invitingly, off the coast near the heavily populated cities of Los Angeles and Orange County communities, and those of us fortunate enough to get away now and then (I finally did so in 2010) can hop a boat to Avalon.
Of course, if the current residents were not on the whole in favor of the deal, they could easily be convinced of its workability. Current residents could be left to live exactly as they do now but could attend to their tourism business with the cooperation of strong business-minded Jewish leaders while watching as the new immigrant population develops the entire Island into the flourishing paradise it could be.
Naturally, anyone reading this will want to pass it off as strictly satire, but please don't. I'm as serious as a six-day war! The whole foolish concept of the playground story above is completely appropriate. The wildly implausible story of a people having some kind of "forever rights" to a homeland because of a fantasy plan of some kind involving promised land being handed down from a phantom being to a long-ago ancestor, was patently ridiculous as a cause for action on the part of a powerful western government in 1948. How did Zionism even gain any credence here in the U.S. back in the World War II era? Two simple facts existed: Everyone with any humanity at that time, decently and rightfully felt compassion for a race of people almost destroyed by a despot; millions of western Christians added to their human compassion a guilt factor. They shared the mythological connection to that original phantom in the heavens and felt that the race that begat their hero, Jesus, should not be erased from the Earth. They were also (as are fanatical believers still today) under the weight of biblical verses (variously interpreted) that prophesy some concept of Jews being IN JERUSALEM at the (longed-for) time of Christ's return. So they launched into an attempt to manipulate synchronicity!
The entire frustrating malaise of the Middle Eastern dilemma was set up and established as an in-perpetuity obligation incumbent upon all U.S. citizens and their political leaders to follow after 1948. So today, our president has to speak to the problem with solidarity, with full bluster and show of strength to the world on behalf of that small stolen piece of almost empty land in an unfriendly and dangerous part of the planet. He has to do so as Ike was obligated to do immediately after the theft was perpetrated and the borders were drawn; JFK was required to do the same, and so has every president since. And now, the most recent three presidents have grown up thinking Israel is real! It was imagined by a non-practicing Jewish writer named Herzl and promoted for half a century until being forced into being in 1948. The project on the whole may be seen a century from now, in the long view of history, as a failure. That nation may even be crushed and forgotten by then! No matter how ignorant and ill-advised I believe it all has been, I nonetheless hold great respect for the amazing leadership of Ben-Gurion and other Israelis over the decades who have managed to establish and develop some kind of government and some kind of life in a totally uninviting land where they are uninvited intruders.
Think of how much better it would all have gone in California!
Personally, I hated the speech given by President Obama at the American Israeli Public Affairs Committee gathering in March. Oh yes, the president was able, because of his intelligence and the capability of his writers, to give another sound and fairly convincing speech that was likely appreciated by the supporters of Israel's sovereignty and will surely be an over-all plus in his run for re-election. What I hated was the fact that he had to deliver it at all.
The words this president and all presidents in the last six decades have been obliged to say about the virtual island called Israel are to me a mystery and the premise itself is indefensible. Our leaders in this country are always required to say words of strong protectionism toward Israel. Israel! A tiny nation carved out of the sands and rocks of the Middle East, surrounded by Syrian, Arabian and Jordanian (and doubtless a few others too obscure to gain notice) peoples and cultures. And much like the briefcase of nuclear power and other responsibilities which is handed off to each new president, in fact part & parcel of that bag of responsibilities, is the protection of Israel. The weight of that powder keg was handed off from Truman to Eisenhower in 1953 and has continued to be handed on down to each new Commander-in-Chief to this day. And each has been measured by his caution and wisdom in handling that explosive.
WHY? Indeed!
Allow me to draw a totally far-fetched analogy here. Let's imagine a playground at a school. That's right - a playground. Silly, I know, but playgrounds have been exigent and weighty in the affairs of men!
The In Crowd - let's use this as the title for the acknowledged strongest group of kids on the playground, encompassing most of the larger and physically more imposing boys who are always prominent in this milieu. The In Crowd has been around and respected, often feared, for quite some time, growing stronger with each challenge to its supremacy. The individual members of this crowd continually change, but the crowd never lessens in its strength or influence over the whole playground. Those smaller cliques that dare to rise up against it are always quelled in such a decisive fashion that they fall away and often dissolve and disappear as a cohesive group that could ever again threaten the In Crowd.
One day an intelligent and persuasive fellow, one of the older and more serious students who is respected and has a devoted but cerebral and harmless following of his own, approaches the leaders of the In Crowd with a request. Could this big, strong group perhaps support the much smaller group who have a big mission and difficult plan to execute? The leaders of the In Crowd listen to a captivating story, well told by this serious older student, about the fact that long ago, before this school existed, even before this whole area was developed and heavily populated, a venerable old man lived in a sad little hut on a small plot of ground. This little old man, let's call him Old Jude Adams, lost track of all his children who had not stayed near him to work his little plot of land. Over many years, they had re-settled elsewhere, with no close ties to the old man or his property. Now, due to much seeking and interesting coincidental events, it had been discovered that a substantial number of the descendants of Mr. Adams wanted to touch base with their ancient forefather's land. This serious student, call him David, acting on behalf of all those distant cousins, had found that old Mr. Adams had left a monument to his legacy. This monument, a strong piece of concrete engraved with the Adams name and inlaid with a small but imposing stone, had been left unnoticed over the centuries by developers, and low and behold, was actually the cornerstone of the current playground activity center. From ancient notes left by Old Jude Adams, the lines of his small plot were easily measured from this monument, and the original property, that should rightfully have been passed on down to all these descendants, now contained the Jungle Jim and other playground equipment area - not any large basketball courts or baseball fields, but that little center of activity that the kids all took for granted, using whenever they pleased.
So here was the request: We, the descendants of Jude Adams, would like to claim this one small area as the place where only we who are all the cousins can play. It should have been ours all along, so we hope that you, the strongest of all the groups of all the kids who frequent this area, will support our decision to make this little plot of our great ancestor, our own private playground. That you will help us put our markings around it and claim it and all rights to its use, for our family only. And further, that you will protect us and our own descendants, allowing us to always play here and keep others out, for all time.
For some strange reason, the leaders of the In Crowd decided they could make that commitment.
Back to today's real world of actual events; after more than six decades, it is not unreasonable to question the whole business of the 1948 world playground and a strange deal that was struck.
Sadly, some of the most devoted present day bright advocates for peaceful solutions to Israel's problems are fine young folks born too recently to question some elements of the way things are. Israel itself was born only three years after I came along, so most of today's American fighters for Israeli concerns have been aware, for all of their lives, only of this great conflict in the Middle East. It's hard for them to grasp the reasons for so much conflict and the hatreds surrounding Israel. Hearing the passionate pleas of intelligent young activists on behalf of Israel and our (American) initiative to stand firm for Israeli sovereignty and safety, makes me a little crazy. People who visit websites like J Street can offer support and join the conversation. Great discussions on television and in meeting halls everywhere can be continued (have been and will be continued) to keep the fight alive and protect Israel at all cost.
Here's my own solution. And since I have no weight in world affairs, my comments will not be measured, (therefore I can toss out any cockamamie idea I please), but here is what should have been done when the United States so desired to assist (a fundamentally good desire) the Jewish People back in 1948 to obtain a homeland. We could have selected one and deeded it to them! Why didn't we give these people we felt obligated to protect, a piece of ground we actually controlled - somewhere more desirable (and safer) than that harsh landscape east of the Mediterranean Sea.
How about Camp Pendleton? Our government had already commandeered that large chunk of California ocean-side property in the war years to use as a training facility for our fighting soldiers and Marines. By the late forties, the war was over and that land could readily have been returned to good use in the art of living rather than preparing for more future killing. Yes, the area is only a fraction of the total size of the current territory called Israel, but it's probably close to the amount of desirable and arable real estate contained in that whole Middle East region. And to me, it has always seemed a crime that any part of the beauty of the coastline of California is devoted to the ugliness and cruelty of war.
So, you say a little more land would have been required for a truly thoughtful gift to our friends? We could have thrown in Santa Catalina Island! Just a breeze of a boat ride, maybe forty miles from the Pendleton coastline, or a very brief commuter plane trip away. You say, but it wouldn't have been like returning to Jerusalem! True. But really, anybody can admit, no matter what mythology is involved, that a city itself cannot be holy. At least, none built by humans. You may believe deeply in a New Jerusalem to come, but that one supposedly will be built by a supreme being and made of pure gold! Putting that aside, think of what a fabulous and distinctive dedicated city could have been built there in the natural beauty of Catalina without even disturbing the small group of existing local citizens at that time. By spreading out over the whole beautiful island, folks could live far better than they do while shoe-horned into the tiny center of Jewish life in the original Jerusalem.
This could all be done still today and we could call a halt to the madness of our obligation to protect eight million people struggling (and terrified) to live in the middle of the Middle Eastern Muslim world. Giving up that part of the commitment to our military preparedness would surely offset the need to keep open this one training facility of Pendleton (one of several in California alone) and the whole arrangement would beautify and honor this part of our planet. Imagine what those creative and hard-working people could do here!
As for the Catalina Island part of the deal, the four thousand citizens of Avalon would very likely vote to approve the take-over by Israelis who could make more of the area than has been accomplished there in the past. After all, the island is accustomed to historic changes and extremely few of these current inhabitants were there in 1948 when the island was most ripe for the change. Tom Robbins who was deeded the island in the early 1800s did little with it and the Banning family went broke trying to make a go of it a century later. Bill Wrigley did okay with his (majority) ownership of the place and for a few decades the Chicago Cubs trained there. But basically, the island sits quietly, invitingly, off the coast near the heavily populated cities of Los Angeles and Orange County communities, and those of us fortunate enough to get away now and then (I finally did so in 2010) can hop a boat to Avalon.
Of course, if the current residents were not on the whole in favor of the deal, they could easily be convinced of its workability. Current residents could be left to live exactly as they do now but could attend to their tourism business with the cooperation of strong business-minded Jewish leaders while watching as the new immigrant population develops the entire Island into the flourishing paradise it could be.
Naturally, anyone reading this will want to pass it off as strictly satire, but please don't. I'm as serious as a six-day war! The whole foolish concept of the playground story above is completely appropriate. The wildly implausible story of a people having some kind of "forever rights" to a homeland because of a fantasy plan of some kind involving promised land being handed down from a phantom being to a long-ago ancestor, was patently ridiculous as a cause for action on the part of a powerful western government in 1948. How did Zionism even gain any credence here in the U.S. back in the World War II era? Two simple facts existed: Everyone with any humanity at that time, decently and rightfully felt compassion for a race of people almost destroyed by a despot; millions of western Christians added to their human compassion a guilt factor. They shared the mythological connection to that original phantom in the heavens and felt that the race that begat their hero, Jesus, should not be erased from the Earth. They were also (as are fanatical believers still today) under the weight of biblical verses (variously interpreted) that prophesy some concept of Jews being IN JERUSALEM at the (longed-for) time of Christ's return. So they launched into an attempt to manipulate synchronicity!
The entire frustrating malaise of the Middle Eastern dilemma was set up and established as an in-perpetuity obligation incumbent upon all U.S. citizens and their political leaders to follow after 1948. So today, our president has to speak to the problem with solidarity, with full bluster and show of strength to the world on behalf of that small stolen piece of almost empty land in an unfriendly and dangerous part of the planet. He has to do so as Ike was obligated to do immediately after the theft was perpetrated and the borders were drawn; JFK was required to do the same, and so has every president since. And now, the most recent three presidents have grown up thinking Israel is real! It was imagined by a non-practicing Jewish writer named Herzl and promoted for half a century until being forced into being in 1948. The project on the whole may be seen a century from now, in the long view of history, as a failure. That nation may even be crushed and forgotten by then! No matter how ignorant and ill-advised I believe it all has been, I nonetheless hold great respect for the amazing leadership of Ben-Gurion and other Israelis over the decades who have managed to establish and develop some kind of government and some kind of life in a totally uninviting land where they are uninvited intruders.
Think of how much better it would all have gone in California!
Monday, March 5, 2012
GOLF
As I begin composing my thoughts here on Sunday, March 4th (I've always liked the idea of some big thing happening in my world on this date - a day I can march forth!), Rory McIlroy is beginning his final round of a tournament in Florida. He has the lead by two strokes and if he can win today, he will be named the #1 player in the world of men's golf. Now this does NOT give me any thing to march forth about, but this definitely IS a big thing in my world. Why? Simply because I love the game.
The above information and admissions of my personal tastes in sports mean absolutely nothing, nada, zero to many folks. In fact, I have heard there are quite a few people out there who do not even consider golf a sport! These would be people who, if they ever were willing to try it, would find it frustratingly difficult to play the game. I've also heard it repeated that about 80% of those who play the game, even on some kind of regular basis, never post lower than a 100 score in an eighteen-hole round. I often wonder whether I would have continued an interest in golf beyond a year or so had I not managed to do better than that statistic. Now that I've enjoyed forty-four years and a small amount of success in the game, I can speak about it both physically and philosophically.
To those folks who have never tried to play golf but are sure they would never want to play it, I simply say, To bad! I think you're missing out on something great in life. To those who denigrate the game, allow me to blatantly praise it and state my reasons for the praise. I'll start by hitting back!
We've all heard it said that it takes all kinds to make a world, and that appears to be the case. Would I enjoy living in a world where golf was respected above all other games and where various other sports such as pugilism and auto racing were either unheard of or had been banned from societies when they first broke out, in the way cock-fighting and dog-fighting have now been banned? Probably so. You see, my personal opinion is that boxing is not a sport! Are men (and many women as well) who get into a boxing ring, far better examples of physical conditioning than I am - or ever was in my stronger days? And could they kick my ass with ease? Absolutely. But why? How did an activity that involves a basic aim of seeing one person beat another to senselessness (a knock-out being the highest hope and goal, as I understand the event), ever gain acceptance in a civilized society?
Now auto racing is obviously not in the same class of the vulgar violence that pugilists inhabit. But seriously, calling it sport to drive around a track at ever greater speeds? Calling a driver an athlete because he is crazy enough to push down on the accelerator after surpassing speeds most of us find frightening? What athleticism does that require?
Now correct me if you can, but I strongly suspect that practically 100% of the folks who enjoy watching a fight, expecting (hoping!) to see a sudden crushing blow that causes an opponent to fall unconscious, will also find it exciting to watch bright cars flashing around a track, knowing that within a tiny particle of a second, a mistake or obstruction (even a tiny pebble) can bring on a fiery or other spectacular crash. Then, of course, because these fans are civilized(!), they must go through the nail-biting wait to see whether their driving hero emerges unharmed from the wreckage. Does this even make sense - seriously? I don't know whether any similar (nail-biting) concern is ever shown for the losing boxer who lies lifeless for a while with a concussion. After all, he IS a loser!
Those who are prone to get into these activities, either as participants or spectators, are a mystery to me. I've always been something of an athlete (minimally capable) and an adventurer (hands-on as much as possible and always in my imagination), but it seems to me that so many less dangerous and destructive opportunities present themselves to us that we need not go to great extremes in order to be exhilarated. Yet I see there are television shows about extreme sports, and there would be no market for that kind of show if there weren't lots of people crazy enough to think these are fun. But I do realize, under the above heading of ...all kinds to make a world, that each of us has a vast menu of potentially pleasing activities from which to choose. I've tried a few things that were beyond my natural skill level. I've gone down some tough intermediate ski runs; the wrecking of a knee on one of those prevented me from moving on up to the black diamond runs. (Probably a case of my knee saving my neck!) I've enjoyed some fairly high-speed water ski outings, never quite mastering the slalom but feeling a little pain from some of the tumbles while trying. I've suffered the spills from bikes and once from a mid-sized motor cycle. Hell, I even felt some pain and sudden fear of a permanent crippling injury while challenging myself with ever-higher jumps and flips on a trampoline! And still today, I haven't given up hope on one day jumping from a mountain top with a hang glider strapped to my body.
So it's not as though I don't have a small grasp on the desire for the thrill of physically demanding and dangerous activities available to us humans. We all must draw the line for ourselves - the line between fun and disaster. Many folks are simply willing to push farther toward the disaster potential than I am. Fine! It's their decision. And they will apparently always have a ready audience when they go to the brink of death. I might watch a little, but often I prefer to even stop watching others who take more chances than I am willing to take. To me, there is no fun or thrill in seeing someone fall, get hit, defy death but just barely. It's all part of my make-up, the derivation of which I cannot explain, that causes me to reside in the Neutral Zone. I have always been quite practical and conservative in my actions but generally very liberal of mind.
So, back to GOLF. This game is not only sport, it is the ultimate sport, in my opinion. The perfect way to compete for money, fame - or whatever one gets by winning. But it is also, as I said to someone just yesterday, a game in which winning can even be defined as one pleases. To me, as a senior citizen, I consider it a WIN when I manage to play an eighteen-hole round without limping home under severe joint pain. Scores? Not important - well, not AS important. I still like winning the little matches within matches we play as a men's club in my neighborhood. But my point is, I never ever consider that I have LOST anything if some other fellow picks up two bucks for low net or closest to the pin or any other little prizes we play for. My life enjoys rather frequent wins because I choose to see it that way.
But look at the wonderful specifics of the game of golf. For one (huge!) item, there is no one playing defense! The course is your real opponent and every player has the equal chance to manage the course using his own strengths, ending with a score that indicates how well he did that management. This allows men to be very competitive while still being gentlemen. They often compliment or high-five one another for good shots within the playing of a match. In fact, in golf it's good for everyone to see others hit some great shots.
For another major point, perhaps my favorite, the sport is completely an individual effort. Sure, some team sports are fun and I've enjoyed both playing and watching some of those immensely. But for a professional who makes a living at a sport, just think of what it means to never need to depend on someone else or several others for your own success. Of course, one must be able to take the lack of success with a cool head because he cannot blame anyone else for any failure. You may point out that Tennis also offers this individual component, but the difference here is that the tennis court is not the opponent for you as a player; the other player is a direct obstacle, playing defense to your best shots.
I've heard people (non-golfers) say how simple it must be to hit that little ball just lying there still, or even set up on a tee, while real athletes like baseball players, have to hit a ball being hurled at 90 miles-per-hour or faster at times. And you'd be right in saying most of us cannot do that! But here's a challenge: I submit that if you could put the best six hitters in the major leagues out on a championship golf course, then afterward selecting the best three holes each of them played over the eighteen, that their combined score will not best almost any pro golfer playing alone! I would love it of some crazy match like this could be set up, but I won't hold my breath. Admittedly, I cannot hit a baseball. Failed in Little League! But I would not hesitate to walk onto a golf course with most any good-hitting 25-yr-old baseball player today, and at 67, half crippled with various old joint and back problems, I could still give the young man a run for his money!
And right there's another major point. We can watch professional golfers today, earning money in a senior league, some of them even labeled "Super Seniors" such as Arnie Palmer. Those fortunate enough to maintain some good health can go on competing at an amazingly capable level even into advanced years. Golf invites the use of natural ability and practiced skill as well as a cunning adapting of that skill as we age. How about that senior NFL? Scary to think of 80-yr-old former football players, most of whom had to give up the gridiron by their early thirties, suiting up and running(!) out there to slam into each other again. Same with basketball, of course, and most sports. You probably don't want to witness aging boxers get into the ring to finish the job of brain destruction begun in their youth. Even you racing fans would probably not want to see Mario and A.J. head back out onto the track - although I can't assume that. If you're hoping to see spectacular crashes, old farts behind the wheel can do those with class! Typically only one crash each.
That's it for now; you're invited to come to my place and try a round of my favorite game!
Well, Rory did it! It's Monday now and he is probably walking around pinching himself to realize he is the world's top golfer. Good show, young Mr. McIlroy! This 22-yr old from Northern Ireland ascends to his position by passing in the rankings (among others), two Englishmen and a German who have recently held the #1 title. This foreign fact will be addressed in a future post.
**Added for your entertainment: If you like the humor of Robin Williams and are not tender of ear for the raw language, here's his take on the Old Game.
The above information and admissions of my personal tastes in sports mean absolutely nothing, nada, zero to many folks. In fact, I have heard there are quite a few people out there who do not even consider golf a sport! These would be people who, if they ever were willing to try it, would find it frustratingly difficult to play the game. I've also heard it repeated that about 80% of those who play the game, even on some kind of regular basis, never post lower than a 100 score in an eighteen-hole round. I often wonder whether I would have continued an interest in golf beyond a year or so had I not managed to do better than that statistic. Now that I've enjoyed forty-four years and a small amount of success in the game, I can speak about it both physically and philosophically.
To those folks who have never tried to play golf but are sure they would never want to play it, I simply say, To bad! I think you're missing out on something great in life. To those who denigrate the game, allow me to blatantly praise it and state my reasons for the praise. I'll start by hitting back!
We've all heard it said that it takes all kinds to make a world, and that appears to be the case. Would I enjoy living in a world where golf was respected above all other games and where various other sports such as pugilism and auto racing were either unheard of or had been banned from societies when they first broke out, in the way cock-fighting and dog-fighting have now been banned? Probably so. You see, my personal opinion is that boxing is not a sport! Are men (and many women as well) who get into a boxing ring, far better examples of physical conditioning than I am - or ever was in my stronger days? And could they kick my ass with ease? Absolutely. But why? How did an activity that involves a basic aim of seeing one person beat another to senselessness (a knock-out being the highest hope and goal, as I understand the event), ever gain acceptance in a civilized society?
Now auto racing is obviously not in the same class of the vulgar violence that pugilists inhabit. But seriously, calling it sport to drive around a track at ever greater speeds? Calling a driver an athlete because he is crazy enough to push down on the accelerator after surpassing speeds most of us find frightening? What athleticism does that require?
Now correct me if you can, but I strongly suspect that practically 100% of the folks who enjoy watching a fight, expecting (hoping!) to see a sudden crushing blow that causes an opponent to fall unconscious, will also find it exciting to watch bright cars flashing around a track, knowing that within a tiny particle of a second, a mistake or obstruction (even a tiny pebble) can bring on a fiery or other spectacular crash. Then, of course, because these fans are civilized(!), they must go through the nail-biting wait to see whether their driving hero emerges unharmed from the wreckage. Does this even make sense - seriously? I don't know whether any similar (nail-biting) concern is ever shown for the losing boxer who lies lifeless for a while with a concussion. After all, he IS a loser!
Those who are prone to get into these activities, either as participants or spectators, are a mystery to me. I've always been something of an athlete (minimally capable) and an adventurer (hands-on as much as possible and always in my imagination), but it seems to me that so many less dangerous and destructive opportunities present themselves to us that we need not go to great extremes in order to be exhilarated. Yet I see there are television shows about extreme sports, and there would be no market for that kind of show if there weren't lots of people crazy enough to think these are fun. But I do realize, under the above heading of ...all kinds to make a world, that each of us has a vast menu of potentially pleasing activities from which to choose. I've tried a few things that were beyond my natural skill level. I've gone down some tough intermediate ski runs; the wrecking of a knee on one of those prevented me from moving on up to the black diamond runs. (Probably a case of my knee saving my neck!) I've enjoyed some fairly high-speed water ski outings, never quite mastering the slalom but feeling a little pain from some of the tumbles while trying. I've suffered the spills from bikes and once from a mid-sized motor cycle. Hell, I even felt some pain and sudden fear of a permanent crippling injury while challenging myself with ever-higher jumps and flips on a trampoline! And still today, I haven't given up hope on one day jumping from a mountain top with a hang glider strapped to my body.
So it's not as though I don't have a small grasp on the desire for the thrill of physically demanding and dangerous activities available to us humans. We all must draw the line for ourselves - the line between fun and disaster. Many folks are simply willing to push farther toward the disaster potential than I am. Fine! It's their decision. And they will apparently always have a ready audience when they go to the brink of death. I might watch a little, but often I prefer to even stop watching others who take more chances than I am willing to take. To me, there is no fun or thrill in seeing someone fall, get hit, defy death but just barely. It's all part of my make-up, the derivation of which I cannot explain, that causes me to reside in the Neutral Zone. I have always been quite practical and conservative in my actions but generally very liberal of mind.
So, back to GOLF. This game is not only sport, it is the ultimate sport, in my opinion. The perfect way to compete for money, fame - or whatever one gets by winning. But it is also, as I said to someone just yesterday, a game in which winning can even be defined as one pleases. To me, as a senior citizen, I consider it a WIN when I manage to play an eighteen-hole round without limping home under severe joint pain. Scores? Not important - well, not AS important. I still like winning the little matches within matches we play as a men's club in my neighborhood. But my point is, I never ever consider that I have LOST anything if some other fellow picks up two bucks for low net or closest to the pin or any other little prizes we play for. My life enjoys rather frequent wins because I choose to see it that way.
But look at the wonderful specifics of the game of golf. For one (huge!) item, there is no one playing defense! The course is your real opponent and every player has the equal chance to manage the course using his own strengths, ending with a score that indicates how well he did that management. This allows men to be very competitive while still being gentlemen. They often compliment or high-five one another for good shots within the playing of a match. In fact, in golf it's good for everyone to see others hit some great shots.
For another major point, perhaps my favorite, the sport is completely an individual effort. Sure, some team sports are fun and I've enjoyed both playing and watching some of those immensely. But for a professional who makes a living at a sport, just think of what it means to never need to depend on someone else or several others for your own success. Of course, one must be able to take the lack of success with a cool head because he cannot blame anyone else for any failure. You may point out that Tennis also offers this individual component, but the difference here is that the tennis court is not the opponent for you as a player; the other player is a direct obstacle, playing defense to your best shots.
I've heard people (non-golfers) say how simple it must be to hit that little ball just lying there still, or even set up on a tee, while real athletes like baseball players, have to hit a ball being hurled at 90 miles-per-hour or faster at times. And you'd be right in saying most of us cannot do that! But here's a challenge: I submit that if you could put the best six hitters in the major leagues out on a championship golf course, then afterward selecting the best three holes each of them played over the eighteen, that their combined score will not best almost any pro golfer playing alone! I would love it of some crazy match like this could be set up, but I won't hold my breath. Admittedly, I cannot hit a baseball. Failed in Little League! But I would not hesitate to walk onto a golf course with most any good-hitting 25-yr-old baseball player today, and at 67, half crippled with various old joint and back problems, I could still give the young man a run for his money!
And right there's another major point. We can watch professional golfers today, earning money in a senior league, some of them even labeled "Super Seniors" such as Arnie Palmer. Those fortunate enough to maintain some good health can go on competing at an amazingly capable level even into advanced years. Golf invites the use of natural ability and practiced skill as well as a cunning adapting of that skill as we age. How about that senior NFL? Scary to think of 80-yr-old former football players, most of whom had to give up the gridiron by their early thirties, suiting up and running(!) out there to slam into each other again. Same with basketball, of course, and most sports. You probably don't want to witness aging boxers get into the ring to finish the job of brain destruction begun in their youth. Even you racing fans would probably not want to see Mario and A.J. head back out onto the track - although I can't assume that. If you're hoping to see spectacular crashes, old farts behind the wheel can do those with class! Typically only one crash each.
That's it for now; you're invited to come to my place and try a round of my favorite game!
Well, Rory did it! It's Monday now and he is probably walking around pinching himself to realize he is the world's top golfer. Good show, young Mr. McIlroy! This 22-yr old from Northern Ireland ascends to his position by passing in the rankings (among others), two Englishmen and a German who have recently held the #1 title. This foreign fact will be addressed in a future post.
**Added for your entertainment: If you like the humor of Robin Williams and are not tender of ear for the raw language, here's his take on the Old Game.
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